


Hydra-bots

by playswithworms



Category: Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Alien Reproduction, Fluff, Gen, asexual reproduction, baby robots, budding
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-05-26
Updated: 2014-06-17
Packaged: 2018-01-26 13:20:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,359
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1689815
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/playswithworms/pseuds/playswithworms
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hydra as in "tiny freshwater invertebrates that reproduce by budding", not "Hydra the world-wide subversive organization dedicated to global domination", or "Hydra the mythical many-headed Greek monster."  Although those would be cool, too!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Optimus and Megatron

“Truce, then?” Optimus asked, with a hint of a smile, the bud attached to his shoulder peering at Megatron with bright blue optics.

Megatron stood with one leg bent at an awkward angle, careful not to jostle the bud just below his knee joint, and one hand rested on the back of a second grey bud at his hip, both of them tiny replicas of their parent. They were just old enough that they were beginning to respond to movement and sound, and the bud on Megatron’s knee reached out curious hands towards the equally curious blue-and-red bud waving and reaching from Optimus’ lower leg. 

Both budlets began squawking and beeping, loudly and insistently, and with a shared rueful glance both he and Optimus limped closer until the two could touch. Megatron watched as the the two buds grabbed arms and bumped their tiny helms together and tried to stuff one another’s finger digits in their mouths. 

“Truce,” he sighed, over the sound of their delighted burbles and squeaks.


	2. Hound and Mirage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One of Hound's buds needs to be detached ahead of schedule.

The door to the medbay finally slid open, none too soon for the collection of anxious mechs outside. Ratchet’s smile told them all they needed to know.

“The bud detached with no complications. We won’t know for awhile if there will be any issues from the early separation, but for right now Hound and all of his buds are resting comfortably.”

There were relieved sighs all around. “Welcome news,” Optimus said. “Thank you, Ratchet.” 

Although the budding process could be uncomfortable and draining at times, it had gone smoothly thus far for the majority of bots. In Hound’s case, however, one of his three buds had formed in his armpit. One of the more inconvenient presentations, although there was considerable good-natured ribbing and competition over whether aft, groin, or armpit buds were the most awkward, but Ratchet didn’t become truly concerned until the pain from keeping his arm wrapped behind his helm or partially lifted all the time began keeping Hound from proper recharge and refueling. 

When further examination determined that the bud was receiving reduced energy flow due to the strain at the shoulder joint, and that compared to his other two buds, this one was growing far more slowly than it should, Hound had reluctantly agreed to early separation. Ratchet had used magnetic resonance stimulation to speed up development to the point where the bud could intake its own energon, and then began the delicate operation to detach it along the separation seam. Even though Ratchet had reassured Hound that the risk to the bud was minimal (and well outweighed by the benefit of continuing development unattached), all procedures on buds were experimental and untested, and it was taken as a good sign that this first medical intervention had gone well. 

After everyone else dispersed, a blue-and-white mech still lingered hopefully near the medbay doors. “Yes, Mirage, you can come in,” Ratchet told him, with a weary smile and a wave towards Hound’s berth. “Hound is still a little groggy, but I think he’d welcome some quiet company.”

Mirage paused on his way in, looking at the medic in concern. “Ratchet, why don’t you lie down for a little bit while I stay with Hound. You look tired.” Most bots had between one and three buds, but Ratchet, along with Skyfire, had five. Ratchet’s were still compact, unsealed bumps on his armor as of yet, but the strain of supporting so many at once was starting to show. Mirage found he needed almost twice as much recharge with just two; he couldn’t imagine how Ratchet was coping. 

Ratchet didn’t argue, which told Mirage just how tired he really was, and also maybe, how much he trusted Mirage to keep a close optic on Hound and his buds, which warmed his spark a little. While Ratchet powered down on a neighboring berth with a grateful sigh (with one leg elevated - happily the rest of Ratchet’s buds were on his front, allowing him to recharge in a relatively simple position) Mirage settled in a chair next to Hound, at a slight angle to allow for the bud on his hip. 

“Raj, hey,” Hound smiled up at him blearily, propped on his side with his shoulder wrapped in medical mesh, his two still-attached buds hunkered down into green lumps on his back and upper thigh. “Look who’s on the loose!” 

Mirage grinned back and gently patted the little bundle tucked against Hound’s chestplates. “How do you feel?” 

“Oh I feel great, just a little woozy. It sure is nice to be able to put my arm down, even if I’m not supposed to move it around yet. I can’t wait until I can pick her up!”

“Her?” Mirage asked, absently jiggling the bud attached to his own arm a little as it stirred and then scrunched back down again. Humans had assumed all of the Autobots were male, most likely because of a superficial resemblance in voice and frame type, although further contact with the humans had revealed that there was a great deal of variation and overlap of both the male and female body forms. Since humans seemed so greatly attached to their gender distinctions they’d initially just rolled with the assumption, but upon further research (and several enlightening conversations with Carly), Optimus Prime had issued the request to be honest with the humans about their own lack of gender or sexual organs, if the topic arose. (A rap song in youtube video form, complete with dancing and helpful diagrams, had _not_ been what he had in mind, but given that it had over ten million views and even raised a good bit of revenue, Optimus conceded that Sideswipe and Sunstreaker had certainly helped get the point across.) Still, force of habit was strong, and most humans and bots still stuck to the “he” pronoun. 

“When organic species bud like this, they call the offspring daughters, so I figured why not?”

“Organics bud?” Mirage asked, surprised.

Hound’s optics brightened with enthusiasm. “Just the simpler forms, yeast and a few invertebrates and such, but yeah, some of them do, it’s really amazing!” 

“Daughters.” Mirage shook his head, looking down at his own two slumbering buds. “It sounds so strange. Of course, so does sons.” 

“How about puppies, then?” Hound said, with an impish grin.

“Puppies!” Mirage laughed. “Maybe for yours, but what about mine?” 

“Kits, of course. Beautiful, wiley little turbofox kits.”

The little bundle by Hound’s chest stirred, tweeping softly. “Speaking of which,” Hound said, wriggling a little in an attempt to get a better look at his bud. “Hi, puppy! How are you doing?’

“May I?” Mirage asked.

“Sure! Just be careful of her attachment end, and she’s supposed to stay bundled up until we’re sure she’s thermoregulating all right.” 

Mirage carefully cradled the green budlet, who stopped squirming and blinked at him, squinching her faceplates in confusion. “She looks so perplexed,” he said. “First time you’ve seen someone from this angle, hm?” Unlike her two larger siblings, who hadn’t had their development accelerated and were only at the peeking around stage, she had already unsealed her arms, and a few of her finger stubby finger digits had begun to unseal as well. She had managed to free them from the insulating wrap, and used them now to wave and clumsily grab at Mirage’s face in fascination. He let her explore for a few kliks, and then turned her so she could see her parent. 

“She recognizes me!” Hound said in delight, as the bud began squirming and beeping excitedly, reaching with her hands until Mirage brought her within grabbing distance of Hound’s face. 

“You can see if it’ll take some energon,” Ratchet murmured from his berth. “Feeding unit’s already charged and on the warmer.” 

“On it, Ratchet,” Mirage said, as he leaned over to nab the feeding unit. “Now go back to recharge.” Ratchet mumbled something unintelligible and powered down again.

With Mirage’s help, Hound managed to bring his good arm up enough to help hold the feeding unit to his budlet’s mouthparts, and they both watched in satisfaction as she swallowed most of the contents, more than she’d managed before she’d been detached, before scrunching herself down into a little bundle again to recharge. Hound’s optics were dimming as well, and he was soon recharging peacefully along with all three of his buds. Mirage’s two buds began stirring again as he kept watch, poking their heads up to peer around with hazy, developing optics. He stroked their helms and talked to them softly, bringing the one on his arm close to the one on his hip so they could see one another. It felt like they were tiny sentient beings now, and not just strange, tender lumps on his armor. His daughters. His sons. His little kit foxes. So strange and wonderful. Soon they would be beeping at him and unsealing their arms and hands and one day they would be running around with Hound’s little pups. He could hardly wait.


	3. Ratchet and Wheeljack

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ratchet has a harder time doing his job with all of his little 'helpers.'

“Aw, Ratch, let the poor little thing out, wouldja?” 

Ratchet paused in his examination of the bud on the top of Wheeljack’s head, sighing in exasperation at the mournful sounds coming from the bud on his left forearm. As his own buds had gotten older, fulfilling his medical duties had gotten much trickier with the addition of five sets of energetic, curious little hands. The buds on his legs and shoulder were at least usually out of the way enough to not interfere with anything important, but the buds on his chest and arm were another matter; he’d had to resort to soft, stretchy fabric 'mufflers' to keep their hands and arms secure so as to avoid endangering his patients, or the buds themselves. 

The bud on his chest didn’t seem to mind. As long as it could still see what was going on, it seemed content to beep and wriggle and grab handfuls of the stretchy fabric and try to stuff it in its mouth, but the one on his forearm hated to be confined, and had lately begun to grab the muffler as Ratchet was putting it on and attempt to push it back off, all the while making sad, pitiful weebles and tweeps. Ratchet felt like the worst parent in the universe, but what else could he do? He couldn’t manage everything one-handed. 

“What am I going to do with you?” The little red-and-white bud twisted around at the sound of his voice to cheep at him hopefully, optics bright over the top of the muffler. Ratchet couldn’t help but smile, despite his weariness and frustration. In the last few days all of his buds had developed tiny little red chevron-nubs on their forehelms. They were completely adorable, if he did say so himself. 

“There’s not really too much damage it could do right now, is there?” Wheeljack suggested, trying to look up at Ratchet without moving his head and thereby moving the bud Ratchet was examining, also muffled, although this one didn’t seem to mind for now, thank goodness. Somehow it had managed to grab a piece of pine branch when Wheeljack had walked too close to a tree, and then cram it into its mouth where it had gotten thoroughly stuck. Ratchet had gotten the largest piece out, but needed to ascertain if the sap and smaller fragments were going to cause any problems - not an easy prospect on a tiny, squirming budlet, even if it did have its arms restrained. “It’s not like there’s any open circuitry or anything.” 

“Hrm.” Ratchet looked at the hopeful blue optics again for a moment, before pulling off the muffler. “No grabbing,” he said sternly, even though he knew quite well there was no reasoning with budlets at this stage. The bud warbled delightedly at being freed and waved its hands at him, and Rachet shook his head. Oh yeah, that had been a mistake. This was going to take three times as long with all the ‘help.’

“Here,” he said, picking up one of the unused cleaning swabs he’d laid out on a tray nearby and holding it in front of the bud until it grabbed the end. “You can be the nurse, ok?” 

The bud poked itself in the face a few times with the soft swab, and then managed to rotate it around, holding the swab facing outwards with a very determined expression. Ratchet cautiously grasped Wheeljack’s bud again to continue the examination. To Ratchet’s surprise, his bud didn’t flail or wave the swab around; instead, again with an expression of great concentration, it lowered the swab very gently to touch Wheeljack’s bud, starting at the attachment end and working its way up and down the little frame, making a sound with each touch. 

“Doot. doot. doot.”

“What’s the little bugger doing?” Wheeljack asked, trying not to crane his neck curiously. 

Ratchet laughed. “I think it’s pretending to do a medical scan.” Buds at this stage weren’t supposed to be capable of purposeful actions like this, but it looked like maybe he had an exception. The little bud twisted around to look at him with a questioning beep. “Yes, you’re doing very well,” he told it, nodding in approval. “Carry on.”

The bud cheeped happily and turned back around.

“Doot. doot. doot.”

“Looks like you’ve got an assistant, Ratch,” Wheeljack said, laughing.


	4. Jazz and Prowl

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jazz catches Prowl sleeping on the job. This is less amusing than he might have imagined.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No buds in this one yet; just the early days of trying to figure out what the heck is going on.

“Hey, Prowl, time to give the ol’ paperwork break and…”

Jazz entered Prowl’s office in his usual exuberant and unannounced fashion, but his voice trailed off quickly. Instead of Prowl’s patented look of supreme tolerance, Jazz was met with the rather alarming sight of the SIC sitting with his face down across his desk, a data pad still clutched in one hand.

“Prowl?” The other mech didn’t wake, although normally Prowl was a light recharger. Jazz moved closer, trying to decide whether he was more worried or delighted by the chance to tease Prowl about falling asleep on the job. Mech’d never live it down. Worried won out, however, as Prowl failed to stir, even when Jazz placed a cautious hand on his shoulder and shook him lightly. He crouched to peer at him more closely. “What the slag’ve you been up to to wear you out like this?” he murmured, scanning him in concern.

Prowl’s optics were shuttered, vents cycling smooth and deep, spark rate steady and core temperature normal to Jazz’s scans. Everything pointed to recharge rather than processor lock or virus, and maybe Jazz should just let the poor mech rest if he was this tired, but still...for Prowl, this just wasn’t normal. And he was going to get a crick in his doorwings, slumped over like that.

“Prowl?” Jazz shook his shoulder a little more firmly. “Prowler, come on, sleeping beauty, wake up.”

To his relief, Prowl groaned and lifted his head, onlining his optics to blink around blearily, focusing finally on the mech leaning over him.

“Jazz.”

“Hey, Prowler. Ya ok? You were recharging sounder than a cyberkitten in a sleeping bag when I got here.” 

Prowl straightened, drawing a deep cycle of air through his intakes. “Yes, I am fine, Jazz. Thank you for waking me, I....”

Jazz frowned in concern again as Prowl seemed to lose his train of thought, blinking down at the datapad he was still holding in one hand as if maybe it would tell him what he had been planning to say next. Jazz shook his head in dismay and took one of Prowl’s arms, urging him up.

“Ok, that does it, Prowler. Off to berth with you for a nice long nap.”

Prowl winced and pulled away a little. “Jazz, I assure you I am perfectly functional. There’s no need to start manhandling me.” 

“I beg to differ,” Jazz said with wounded dignity. “That makes the third time I’ve called you Prowler, and you didn’t even raise an optic ridge! That’s the official ‘Prowlie needs a nap’ indicator in my book. Didn’t mean to hurt ya, though,” he added, a little apologetically, watching as Prowl rubbed a spot on his shoulder gingerly with his other hand. 

“You didn’t,” Prowl reassured him. “It was sore already.”

“Uh huh.” Jazz crossed his arms and scowled down at him. “You don’t say. You didn’t happen to get hit in that dust up with the ‘Cons a few weeks back and neglect to tell ol’ Ratchet about it, did ya?” 

“No. I believe I merely recharged on it wrong.” Prowl sighed wearily and looked Jazz, who had not ceased his scowling. “You’re not going to give up, are you.”

Jazz’s scowl transformed into a wide grin. “Knew you’d see it my way, Prowlicious.”

Prowl gave him a sceptical look. “Prowlicious? Really, Jazz.” 

“An’ there it is, raised optic ridge and all. Now that’s the Prowlybot I know and love.”

Prowl very deliberately raised _both_ optic ridges this time, then stood, limping a little as he headed for the door. 

“Lemme guess,” Jazz said, following behind him,“ya sat on your leg wrong, too?” 

“If it’s not better after my ‘nap’, I’ll go see Ratchet, I promise.” Prowl’s glance held a hint of subtle affectionate amusement. It put a little extra spring in Jazz’s steps as they continued toward Prowl’s quarters. “You may cease your fussing.” 

Jazz twirled around to protest that he most certainly did not “fuss”, but then had to maneuver quickly as they rounded a corner and nearly bumped into Bluestreak.

“Whoa! Blue, sorry, didn’t mean ta run ya down.”

Bluestreak blinked at them both for a moment, his optics dim. “Oh,” he said finally. “It’s ok, Jazz.” 

“You sure?” Jazz asked, after Bluestreak failed to add any of his usual elaboration. “That’s got to be the shortest sentence I’ve ever heard out of ya.”

“I’m...kind of too tired to talk,” Bluestreak said with a bit of a bemused laugh. “Isn’t that funny? I’ve never been too tired to talk before. Only now I’m talking, so I guess I’m not really _that_ tired, except I’m supposed to be on patrol right now, and sorry Prowl but I’m running behind because my back hurt so much last night I couldn’t recharge and then I woke up late, but I’ll take an extra shift-”

“Your back hurts?” Prowl interrupted, optics narrowing in concern. “Not your doorwings?”

Bluestreak shrugged a shoulder and nodded. “Maybe I just laid on it funny, but that’s weird, because usually it _would_ be my doorwings, and I don’t recharge on my back anyway. It’s definitely my back that’s sore although now everything sort of hurts-ow! Yeah, that’s the spot.”

Jazz had taken Bluestreak by the shoulders and gently rotated him while he was still talking. “You’ve got a bit of a bump back here, Blue. No wonder it’s sore.” He and Prowl exchanged glances, and Prowl felt carefully along his own shoulder.

“It’s...very slight, but yes, there is a small raised area.” 

“How about your leg?”

“If you must know, it’s my aft, not my leg, and…” Prowl ignored Jazz’s smirk as he felt along his backside. “Yes, there, too.” 

Bluestreak turned around. “What?”

“Looks like you and Prowl may have contracted the Praxian Pox or somethin’,” Jazz told him.

“Praxian Pox?” Bluestreak said worriedly, trying to feel the bump on his back with one hand.

“There’s no such thing, Bluestreak,” Prowl reassured him. “Still, given the similarity of our symptoms, I believe a visit to Ratchet is in order.” 

Along the way to the medbay they discovered Optimus Prime, leaning against a wall, his optics shuttered. 

“Prime?” Prowl said, concern making his voice sharp.

Optimus straightened with a startled intake of air, onlining his optics and limping a few steps away from the wall 

“Jazz, Prowl, Bluestreak,” he nodded to each of them. “My apologies. I was resting my optics for a moment.”

“Oh no,” Bluestreak said in dismay. “You’ve got the Praxian Pox, too?”

“This is not good,” Jazz muttered.

Optimus blinked at them. “The what?”

“C’mon, Prime,” Jazz said, taking one of Optimus’s arms and nudging the rest of his collection of weary mechs down the corridor. “You’re coming with us.”

**Author's Note:**

> Real life is super busy right now, but there may be some more snippets and bits forthcoming, as brain energies allow. Also, as with all my fics, I have an open sandbox policy - feel free to take any ideas here and run with them :)


End file.
